Of Pain and Killers: Blake's Confessions
by LovEinLimBo
Summary: Blake's interior monologue centering on one agent Norman Jayden. What his first impression of the FBI agent was, what he had expected and what had gone wrong. This story explores another side of Blake, the one he never let anyone see;Blayden.
1. Part I

**Of Pain and Killers: Blake's Confessions**

**Summary**: Blake's interior monologue centering on one agent Norman Jayden. What his first impression of the FBI agent was, what he had expected and what had gone wrong. This story explores another side of Blake, the one he never let anyone see; the one we didn't thought existed.

**Paring**: Carter Blake/Norman Jayden

**Rating**: PG-13

**Warning**: short chapters; weird narration; no plot; stream of consciousness; unbeta'ed; angst. OOCness on the part of Blake because I wanted to look at him from a different angle.

**A/N:** Anybody else noticed how much Leon Ockenden smiles? Playing the depressed and grave Norman Jayden must have been a far cry from his real self. This thought is pretty much the whole inspiration behind this mini-story. God, this story's so weird.

**Part I:**

I am drunk on you. It sounds stupid, I know; it would make you do a double take and question my sanity if you were to hear it, and the implications it has, will do nothing for my pride and dominant nature; yet, don't judge me; don't laugh at me, I can explain. But you never laugh or even smile. Sometimes you smirk, but the effect is lost because it is always at _my_ expense. I wonder what would happen if you do; smile, I mean. Or rather, what has to happen for you to smile? I have never seen you smile, but I know it will look good on you. You have the face for it, and sometimes I imagine those pale, gray eyes of yours filled with mirth and turned into a vibrant shade of blue, I can hear the peels of your laughter resonating along these walls, shattering them to pieces by their constant frequency, and your lips stretched wide across your youthful face, and suddenly everything is a hundred shades brighter. You laugh and the sound of your laughter stops the rain. You laugh and the children stop dying. You laugh and I start to believe the world is not such a bad place to live in after all, if one gets to hear you laugh.

It's a hobby of mine, imagining you doing impossible things; like smiling for one, and being genuinely happy. I wonder if you had ever been happy. You don't have laugh lines around your eyes, but instead there are lines of tension on your forehead. There is a permanent frown set upon your face, and you always, always look tragic. Even when you're angry, or frustrated, there is always a veil of sweet tragedy wrapped around your slender frame. It almost makes me sick looking at you, my heart churns every time you blink, but you are a fatal car crash in the middle of a rainy highway, and I, try as I might, cannot avert my eyes from the hideous sight of you.

I know it's heavy, the burden you carry; too heavy for your years and slight built. But you never let on how much pain you are going through every single day. You walk tall and your steps seem sure and stable, but deep down you are a staggering drunk searching blindly for a wall to lean against. You try your best to hide them, the trembling of your hands, the cold sweats running down your nape, the wheezing of your breath, the shroud of dread draped heavily around your shoulders, but you can do nothing to hide your face littered with black and green bruises (your bones rattle as you walk), and the dark bags under your eyes speak volumes about the insomnia that has a vice-like grip on you; I know you make love to her every night and almost never come. Is that what has made you look so tragic? Being in the state of constant dissatisfaction and failure? Is that why you look so miserable, drowned inside those expensive suits of yours, looking sharp and professional to the world, but a pathetic cripple in the mirror? Is that why you push me away every time I try to reach for you? Is that why you turn your back on me every time I try to get a rise out of you? Is that why you punched me the other day? I can still feel the skin throb, where your hand had touched my face, and I wear the bruise with pride. I remember every second of it, but mostly the expressions that filtered through your face as I held you at gunpoint. I don't know why I did it, drawing my gun and treating you like a lowlife criminal. I admit I don't have the best of tempers, but it has never been this bad before. I almost want to regret it, to wish it never happened, if it weren't for that god-awful expression that broke across your face. The fear, that raw, primal fear, but mostly the desperation and the resignation, that goddamn pang of hatred and revulsion, but maybe more of pain, a convulsing throb of agony that shattered your face as if it were fine glass. And it was all fucking tragic; so tragic that I could almost sob; so fucking miserable that I could almost pull the trigger on you. If so that I could put an end to that god-awful expression. If so that I could make you happy. But you're never happy, are you? Will death make you happy? What makes you happy, Norman? _What_?

_You talk in Pain, the universal language, and I still have trouble understanding you. _

_"Sometimes I get depressed over my own pain; it's the only kind of depression that makes me feel alive."_

_You are a valley of misery; a swamp of infected wounds. Your pain runs deep into your core; I am just scratching the surface._

_And my nails come away with blood; your blood; your pain; mine now. _

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><p><strong>AN:** So what do you think? I hope it didn't suck too bad; I have read a bunch of HR fanfictions, all of them absolutely brilliant and delightful, and was tempted to write one of my own; only, I wanted to explore another side of Blake, the one he himself may not be even aware of. In almost all the fanfictions I've read, and even the way the canon Blake has been portrayed in the game, Blake has been shown as a brutal cop who doesn't care about the consequences as long as the desired goal is achieved. It seems as if his hatred for Norman stems from jealousy and rivalry, but I wanted to look at it from another angle. To explore the forbidden territory, so to speak. So, hmm…tell me what you think! :)


	2. Part II

**Summary**: Blake's interior monologue centering on one agent Norman Jayden. What his first impression of the FBI agent was, what he had expected and what had gone wrong. This story explores another side of Blake, the one he never let anyone see; the one we didn't thought existed.

**Paring**: Carter Blake/Norman Jayden

**Rating**: PG-13

**A/N:** When Jayden and Blake first meet, Blake is almost civil to him, answering all his questions in a calm and objective manner; that made me wonder. What if Blake did not hate Jayden from the beginning? What happened that brewed animosity between the two?

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><p><strong>Part 2:<strong>

Sometimes I think about the first time we met; at the wasteland. The first impression. It was raining so hard and I was soaked to the bones. It was a damn dark night, too, with the moon somewhere behind the gray clouds. I didn't like the chills that ran down my spine with every breath I took. It was a terrible night, and the thought of you, the thought of finally seeing you, was the only thing that pushed me through. You never knew it was me. I was the one who asked for you. Ironic, isn't it? Not the fact that I asked for you, but how things turned out between us, went to hell in a fucking handbasket.

"_Carter, stop! I'm gonna report you for this!"_

"_Go ahead, get the hell outta here. I couldn't stand you from the very beginning, Norman. Now get the fuck out!"_

(There was some truth in that, but mostly lies. If you knew how I felt, if you knew…)

I knew we couldn't do it without the help from the FBI, it was a realization I came to after two years of dead end investigation (you always took me as a vain man, one whose pride was more important to him than the lives of the children he should have protected, and maybe I was, in so many ways; maybe I was jaded and prejudiced, hated to admit defeat, but too many children had died already and above all I was a cop; I wanted to stop the killings just as fervently as you) and I asked Perry (reluctant as he was) to contact them and ask them for their best agent. When I finally met you, I have to admit, I was disappointed, but mostly enraged. Here I was, looking forward to seeing the best agent the fucking FBI could offer, and there you were, looking so fucking young and pretty one could almost mistake you for a teen heartthrob. What were you, in that designer suit, fine, soft hair stuck to your forehead, eyes wide and innocent, soaked in rainwater, doing here? For a moment I thought you had lost your way; then you opened your mouth and introduced yourself, 'Agent _Nahman_ Jayden, FBI' and I was stumped. Were you the one I was dying to meet? Were you our fucking savior angel? You looked like an angel, alright, but a drowned one; one with his wings torn apart, bleeding rainwater all over the ground. I felt as if the FBI had mocked us by assigning _you_ to the case. I was so insulted I actually wanted to deck you, but then you started talking and I gave a pause. You did sound professional and smart in that odd Bostonian accent of yours. Slowly my respect for you started to build up and I saw you in a whole new light (your eyes shone with determination, but they were coming down with a different kind of fever). You were young, too young for my liking, but you were intelligent and confident. I was willing to overlook our age difference, almost certain that we could be great as partners, and when you asked me if you could take a look at the crime scene, I let you, knowing full well I was leaving this case in capable hands.

(My life was in your hands; hands that were shaking so bad I thought you were having a seizure; I was scared for my own life being held at gunpoint by that lunatic, but you almost looked on the verge of a breakdown. Suddenly, the time split and there were two universes; one where you shot Nathaniel Williams and one where you didn't. I thought it would make a difference, living in either universe, but in the end, the two outcomes meant one thing: that you needed help.)

What did go wrong, then? How did you go from being my potential good partner to my nemesis and the bane of my existence in less than 24 hours? Was it your arrogance, your goddamn sense of self-righteousness? To many it would look like that, but it really wasn't the case. You had a right to be arrogant, even if your ways differed drastically from mine, even if I didn't believe in your psychological crap, even if I was unimpressed by your theoretical bullshit, you knew what you were doing, and I respected that. We were bound to this case by a common goal, to find the fucking Origami Killer come hell or high water and put a stop to all these deaths. I understood this, and I know you did as well. That was why I let you accompany me to Nathaniel William's house without a single complaint or any other places that were related to the Origami case. No, what I couldn't stand about you was not your arrogance and self-importance; it was your pain; your god-awful pain that tore at the muscles of your face and burned holes in your skin like strong acid. It was the pain that greeted me in the precinct every morning; the pain in your colorless eyes that regarded me, humiliated me, broke me and killed me. Your pain that dripped off your face like crystal tears, buzzed at the tip of your gloved fingers that contaminated every spot they touched. _You_ contaminated me. You hurt me beyond repair. You plunged your hand deep into my chest, ripped off my heart, and crushed it under your shoes. I was drunk on you, and you were drunk on your goddamn pain (what did you think you were, a fucking superhero?).

I think you snorted misery in bathroom stalls, getting high on tragedy and hallucinating death. You thought you could hide your problem under your lapel, you thought nobody would ever find out because nobody cared.

_I_ did.

I cared about you, and your problem, (I don't know how it happened; I sure as hell didn't ask for it. One moment it was there, glaring obnoxiously at me, then it was _in_ me, making me sick, it bubbled in my throat and I almost threw up; your problem) started to become mine.

(It hurts when you do; hurts watching you hurt; you were only made of flesh and bones; your flesh was rotting away and your bones were all broken, but you never stopped playing the goddamn hero; nothing on earth was more painful than watching you drown in pain and blood).

And your pain became mine.

When you jabbed your hand into your pocket, grasping for that blue vial I knew it was there, resisting the urge despite the agony that was buzzing into your ears like white noise, I wanted you to take it, because _I_ couldn't take it anymore. I felt your pain rippling through your limbs as if it were mine, and I wanted nothing at that moment to draw my gun and shoot you dead; not because I hated you because you were a goddamn, self-righteous bureaucrat, but because I hated you because you were trying so hard to be a goddamn tragic hero it was almost pathetic, almost sad…

I would have been better off if I didn't care; if the deep nothingness in your eyes had not reached to me that night, if I hadn't seen you in your lowest moment, if you hadn't fucking fallen apart right before my eyes, I wouldn't have cared one bit for your sorry ass.

Damn you Norman fucking Jayden; damn you.

"_I dream in fragments and wake up in pieces; you are trying to fix me, to put the pieces back together and make me look like the human I used to be, but I'm missing some parts and will never be whole again."_

"…_you might as well stop trying."_


	3. Part III

**Warning**: This chapter is a little…disturbing; or at least, that's what my boyfriend told me. That should be about it. Oh, and a little cussing, of course, and a lot of blood.

**A/N:** When Blake remembers some fragmented dialogues from the past, they have been typed in _italics_; when he remembers an incident with more details, it has been put between parentheses. His narration which happens in the present time (which is broken by other fragmented memories) has normal formatting.

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><p><strong>Part 3:<strong>

"_What's it to you, Carter, whether I live or die? Why do you keep coming back? Why don't you fucking leave me alone? What does it matter to you, Carter? WHAT THE FUCK DOES IT MATTER?"_

It doesn't. It doesn't matter. You were gone the moment you entered my life. It's not like we shared anything special together; it's not like we snuggled after we fucked, or brought each other coffee in the morning. It's not like we got turned on by a simple glance or a coy smile, or felt the waves of affection wreck our dignity upon discovering our own articles of clothing on each other's frames.

Only that it was.

Every goddamn time.

We tried to fight it; I more than you; at times, you more than I; this spiral descending into the depth of hell where our bodies became a tangle of raw emotions and foreign, nauseating feelings of what you once dared to call 'love'.

"_If it's about falling, I'm at my lowest, Blake. If it's about feelings, I guess I have some for you; enough to make me fucking miserable when you're not around fucking me into the wall; what else could it be, Blake, if not 'love'?"_

I remember I punched you when you said it; in that cool, sarcastic tone, you said it like it was an insult, you cringed as if it was a disease, and I punched you not because I thought otherwise, but because I thought the same; it _was_ a disease, whatever it was between us, and you saying it out loud like that made it sound all the more repulsive, all the more real. It was as if _you_ were the disease; a degenerative disease; a chronic disease; contagious; spreading across my sanity and contaminating my air with every time you exhaled.

At first, I tried to fight you, to stop you from getting into my system, sullying my blood, then I tried to treat you, to help you get rid of the disease, only to find out later that your disease was incurable.

"_You think it's funny? You think it's fucking hilarious seeing me like this? Or maybe you pity me! Think that I'm a fucking charity case or something. Does that turn you on, Carter? Do you get off on me chocking on my own blood? Tell me, do you wanna fuck me when I've gone all batshit crazy and can't tell your dick from a fucking fish?"_

(Your face is reflected upon the cold surface of the blue vial; your eyes little dots of gray tinged red. You cry blood, scarlet speckles shining on your pale skin, blood trickles into your mouth, onto your collar, staining your white shirt, and you smile a bloody smile, your teeth sparkle red under the dim lights. I like to think I'm imagining it all, that I am stuck in a nightmare with you looking like a scene from a low-budget horror movie, but the stench of your blood is so strong I can almost taste it in my mouth. Or are we kissing?)

"_I'm not…how did you even…fuck you, Blake; always sticking your fucking nose where it doesn't belong! It's not…it's not what you think, ok? I have these…headaches; they're pretty bad; I'm not…I'm not an addict, ok?"_

You said your Triptocaine was more triptan than cocaine.

You lied.

You fucking lied to me; I wasn't so much furious that you had lied to me than the fact that I had believed you.

(It has never stopped raining ever since you arrived; you keep complaining about the cold, but I don't understand. You are clothed in coldness, dipped in rainwater. What is it about the cold you can't stand?)

"_The rain…I fucking hate the rain; and the cold. Sometimes I wish I could say it's because I miss home, but I don't have a fucking home to miss. On nights like this, with the sound of fucking rain spattering against the windows, I want nothing more than crawling under the bed and bawling my eyes out; that, or just snorting some Tripto and tuning out all sounds around me. When the urge to do either of those becomes too hard to resist, sometimes I even think about you; think about calling you up, saying something smart, getting under your skin, egging you on to come and get me. After some screaming and punching and kicking, the urge goes away. When you beat me up, the rain ceases to matter._ _When you cause me pain, I feel alive."_

("I never w-wanted to…do it, you know."

You wipe your chin with the sleeve of your shirt, painting it with big smudges of blood still trickling from where I had smashed the gun against your mouth, busting it open like a fucking Christmas present. You kick your gun away, it hits against the wall and its barrel mockingly points at you. This is the gun you had been holding against your temple moments ago; the same gun I used to hit your face with and split your lips open. You turn towards me; your tie is loose around your neck, your shirt unbuttoned and soaked in blood; your feet is bare on the cold ceramics; they're also bloodied; you'd been walking on the broken pieces of a vodka bottle, pretending to be a fucking Indian ascetic or something. You are a perfect picture of imperfection, a torn-to-shreds soldier of an ancient war; you are talking with a mouth that is about to fall apart, words slurred with pain and loss of blood, and I am still too shocked to react.

"I just wanted t-to know…what it is that m-makes committing s-suicide…so difficult. It's certainly the f-fear, the f-fucking Eros, but it's more than that."

You're standing right before me, mere inches away. You have blood all over you, most of which are not even my doing. You hold out your hand and ask for a cigarette. I don't think smoking is a good idea at the moment, considering your physical condition, but you need something to dull the urge of seriously damaging yourself, so I'll let you have one; Now that there is little distance between us, I can see just how bad your wound is; I wonder if it will need stitches.

"It's…it's ab-bout the gun, you know? Someone has to…hold it, right? But when you sh-shoot yourself, it falls…to the ground, there's no one there to keep holding it…after you hit the g-ground; it's just…so path-pathetic, you know? The gun, it shouldn't fall with you; it's just…not right. If somebody else shoots you, it's alright, because…when you fall, your k-killer is still holding on to the gun, it's not a p-pathetic death, but when you yourself do it, it's rea-really awful; the gun must not…you know what I m-mean, right?"

You light your cigarette with a lighter you have taken out of your pocket and briefly I wonder how long it has been since you got a lighter of your own. You wince when the filter comes into contact with your open wound and the relief that washes over your face at the feel of fresh pain is appalling.

"B-but of course that's only the case with killing yours-self with a gun; maybe overdosing or…or slashing your wrists or drowning…but th-then again, they're all kinda path…etic, aren't they? I mean, I didn't live through all this agony just to go down so pa-pathetically, you know? My end…it has to be grand, like a Greek t-tragedy or something. I think that's on a lot of people's thoughts, that we live like a hero, why the hell n-not go down like one."

A hero; that's all you've ever cared about; the only force that pumps blood into your veins, only to have it all pour out of every hole in your body. You are scared of failing to find a meaning to all of your sacrifices; you are scared that living like a hero will not entail dying like one. You hate doing anything without a cause, least of all dying. You think you're a hero; I think you're an idiot, Norman; a first class idiot with inflated balloons for brain cells. It only takes me a needle to make you bust, to pull you down from your shaky pedestal, to strip you off all your delusions and smash your face into the brick wall of reality. But you know that already, don't you, Norman? That's why you're standing this close to me, blowing smoke into your open wound, into my face, waiting for me to do something; to reach for my needle, perhaps, and burst your tiny cells into the air. That's what you want, isn't it, Norman? For me to destroy you, to be the hand that keeps holding the gun long after you hit the floor so that you won't look pathetic in your death. It's almost horrifying how well I understand you, and how much I yearn to oblige you.

"…_craving you is like craving pain, craving misery, craving death in the most agonizing way…"_

I take the burning cigarette from your mouth, and take your bleeding mouth into mine; you taste of blood and smoke, of pain and pleasure, of life and decay; the intoxicating taste of madness. My head spins as you spin us around in a mocking dance, the world becomes a flurry of colors around us, the sound of our harsh breathing the soundtrack to our dance. I drink the life right out of you, and you laugh into my mouth; the sound of your laughter hits the roof my mouth, and echoes hollowly into my ears. You have never looked happier, more beautiful. Norman, is this what makes you happy? If this makes you happy, I'll do it; no matter what it takes, I'll make you happy; promise.)

"_You'd spent two fucking years on this case, and I found the Origami Killer in less than 72 hours; that must have made you jealous. Maybe you had felt threatened by my obvious superiority and thought about asserting your control by taking mine away. I have a master's degree in psychology, I know these things."_

"_Oh cut the crap, Jayden. Your psychology isn't worth shit and you know it. You should be fucking flattered that the only reason I fuck you is because I find you fucking irresistible. You look especially fuckable when you're giving me head. Like…ah…right now." _

I wasn't jealous; not like that anyway. Not after I saw what you did to yourself every day. I never found your pain amusing; never found it in me to laugh at you when you were writhing in agony and out of your fucking mind. I felt for your pain, but never pitied you; it was your choice to be what you were, how could I have pitied you for making such a difficult choice and being goddamn stubborn enough to stick with it to the end? And it wasn't your pain that turned me on; it was your happiness. But you were only happy when you were in pain. I guess you had a right to think so lowly of me, but I only wanted to make you happy…and failed.

Because it wasn't the punch that bust your lip, but the ride that took you to the hospital; because it wasn't the kick that cracked your bones, but the soft touch of my fingers on your body, checking for any injury; because it wasn't the force that settled between your thighs, knocking the wind out of you, but the feathery whisper into your ear afterwards, that asked if you were all right. It wasn't the pain that made you happy, but the concern that came after it; and I realized it too late; too late.

What you didn't say could have saved you, if you had said it; if you could have said it; if I had let you; if you weren't so goddamn proud and I so goddamn stupid.

If you had said it, this thing, this _love_, would have been beautiful, and you would have been happy.

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><p><strong>AN:** I find Blake fucking a hallucinating Norman highly amusing and hot; just saying.


	4. Part IV

**A/N:** Funny how life can sometimes get in the way of my creativity. I have been meaning to finish this chapter for a long while now, but every time something happened and I had to leave it for another day. Well, here it is at long last, the last part. Blake's thoughts are more haphazard in this, and I hope the weird format of this part will not put you off (the original format had differnt font size for some paticular lines, but it seems ff. net does not support that formating, so I had to change them all). I also apologize for any mistakes you may find, for as much as I have proofread it, I am not a native English speaker, and mistakes are bound to happen. Thank you everyone for reading and commenting. This little story would have not existed without your kind words.

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><p>"the only thing that's permanent is destruction<p>

we're all going to disappear

trying to leave a mark more permanent than myself"

_SARAH KANE- 4.48 Psychosis_

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><p><strong>Part IV<strong>

The air is stale and stagnant; there is no window to let the fresh air in, and thick dust has gathered on the fingerprints you had left on the desk. If I had those magical sunglasses of yours, I would have perhaps found evidence of your presence on every fucking spot of this place; maybe I could track your smell all the way back to Washington; maybe I could even drag your scrawny ass all the way back here; not sure if the glasses could do that, or that I would even want that; to have you here with me, looking at me like the way you did that day, like every other day that you came back or went away, with contempt and a badly-concealed hurt expression, like an orphan slapped in the face too hard, or a fallen man kicked in the chest too much. Your mouth was dripping blood when you said, 'Jesus, Blake, it was a fucking joke. What, do you honestly think I could fall for you? I'm not that desperate yet. Plus, I hate the way you fuck me; hate the way you treat me, like I am a piece of junk, or a personal property that you could trash as you please. It's not love, and it never will be. I'll fucking make sure of that.'

You were pathetic; mouth bloodied, shoulders shaking, eyes watering. Your words were the worst, though; they sounded like they had come out of a sickeningly sentimental novel-highly emotional, with fanciful words that were more decorative than meaningful; they were meant to hurt as they hurt you; they were meant to make me feel sorry for you; to pity you and hate the monster you thought I was. But I didn't feel sorry for you; those were not your words; you had not intended to say them. You had been high on your fucking Tripto, said some crap that didn't mean anything, got on the wrong side of me, and I blew you off. In a way, you had it coming to you, and whether you kept your silence because you actually believed in what you said or were just trying to protect your goddamn pride, I don't give a fuck. We were hardly a match made in heaven. You were distant, cold, and confusing. I was demanding, coarse, and cruel. Sometimes I wonder what kept us together for as long as it did, what brought you back after the Origami case was over, but I lack your psychological insight, and always draw blank. You said you had come back to cut loose some strings neither of us knew had been attached in the first place, as if those strings were a pair of shoes you had left behind and now had come back to retrieve it. But instead of cutting those said strings, you let them be. You claimed to be on some sort of a sick leave, you stayed for about a month, and we fucked every other night. You said you needed a distraction, a different kind of pain that tasted so awful you would never become addicted to, but in a way you did become addicted, didn't you, Norman? All kinds of pain are addicting; you should have known this better than anyone.

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><p><em>Crawling your way into my bed, you beg for the release, sobbing into the pillow, you scream my name. You tell me this won't happen again, over and over, like a mantra, too many times it starts to sound hollow even to your own ears, and I almost want to believe you because you're hurting and I am turned-off by your self-inflicting pain, but I don't, because you need this and I need you and suddenly your pain starts to wear off like old paint coming off a dilapidated wall...<em>

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><p>I liked to see you stripped to your bones, vulnerable and exposed not because you were doing something you were disgusted at, but because you loved doing it in all its abhorring glory that was beyond your comprehension. In a way, you were pathetic: clinging to your self-hatred as if your sanity depended on it. And yet, you impressed me: craving something that would destroy you, your ability of loving what disgusted you. If I was the monster in your closet that kept your wounds fresh so you wouldn't forget they were there, you were the lethal virus that got under my skin and turned me inside out. I kept you anchored in your fears so you wouldn't slip; you pushed me under desire and let me choke.<p>

_"Sometimes I think our relationship is like a seesaw; when you're up, I'm down. when I'm up, you're down. And when either of us is high and least expecting, the other suddenly gets up and leave, inevitably sending his partner crashing to the ground."_

It was a tasteless joke, giving you such a pigsty for an office; Perry wanted to hear you moan about it like the bitch he thought you to be, and it made him resent you with a new kind of passion when you didn't utter a word. But I always thought you had to be grateful for it. And I think you were. It _was_ a pigsty, but even without your fancy sunglasses, I think you still loved that place. It was your haven where you hid all your dark secrets in all its dusty corners. It was where you would break down, concealed from every wandering eye; its door still has the imprint of your back on it. There are little dots of blood on the tiles that I sometimes find myself staring at for several minutes; thinking about you, imagining you standing there on shaking legs, your hand slipping into your pocket, hesitating even with so much pain gnawing away at your sanity. Thinking about you, thinking about _loving_ you, missing you, hating you, wanting you, has turned into a habit, and habits die hard, if ever.

_"I have to admit, it hurts more than it heals; but then again, so does you fucking me. You're not asking me to quit being your little fuckbuddy any time soon, now are you? So just lay off and let me snort my fucking life into oblivion."_

Sometimes I worry about the amount of time I spend thinking about you, worrying that I have become obsessed with something that is not here, will never be here, and maybe, has never been here in the first place. I frequent your abandoned office like a regular does a favorite bar, and get drunk on the thought of you. Maybe I have become sentimental in my old age; maybe I have lost my fucking mind, but there is something about this place, something so utterly intimate, so fucking wrong, that it makes me feel as if I have walked in on you jerking off to the picture of your first flame. There is a pull in here that keeps dragging me back, a kind of black hole that sucks me in, a shameful memory that keeps tormenting me until I am a fucking emotional mess. This place is bare, dusty and cold; but I feel your presence as if you are still here, have never left, have become a permanent resident in every goddamn flicker of dust that enters my mouth and makes me cough up my most hated memories…

("I'm leaving for Washington tonight." You announced in a grim voice, giving me a sideway glance, gauging my reaction. I shrugged, and blew my cigarette's smoke out of the car's window. In truth, I couldn't care less whether you left or stayed, and I made sure my body language said as much. I was numb; the cold had seeped in too much. Every motion had halted around me, time had frozen. I found myself standing still among the ruins of a once grand metropolis destroyed by a hurricane; everyone was dead; there was no sound but the low whispers of whatever used to be. It did occur to me how ironic it was, now with the Origami case closed and all, to feel like everything has died along with it, but I had never been one to fully comprehend irony, let alone appreciate it, like the way you did all the time. I looked into the rearview mirror, and sure enough, those damn colorless eyes of yours were staring back at me. I wanted to look away, to get away from that haunting gaze, but everything with you was a fucking challenge, and I refused to be defeated. It was funny that you had brought it up, knowing that I was the one who had seen to your complete removal from the Origami case. What were you expecting me to say? That I was going to miss your scrawny, bureaucratic ass? Were you hoping that I would beg you to stay a little longer, or that I would promise to write love letters to you every goddamn Saturday, just because of one misplaced fuck? And to think that you had been already obsessed…

But the look in your eyes was anything but hopeful. You didn't even look desperate, as I imagined you, almost wanted you, to be. You looked apathetic, too blasé and pale in your gray suit you almost looked dead. But you still had said those words, and you were still looking at me expectantly, and even if I was shit at reading your expressions, it didn't mean you hadn't any. Maybe you thought I was angry at you for killing Scott, and you were keeping a neutral face to avoid my wrath; perhaps you thought I was jealous of you for being the one to close the case and were trying to look humble through your nonchalance. But the truth was, I wasn't feeling anything. To you, it was a case successfully wrapped up in less than three days; maybe you even felt like partying. But to me, it was a sudden halt to a case that had dragged on too long, maybe I was even feeling nostalgic about it. And now, after all these years there remained nothing. Surely there was going to be a lot of paperwork and the press trying to poke its big, ugly nose into our business for days to come, but these things annoyed me more than anything. I guess I just needed a closure, but Scott's death only led me to more untrodden paths which I didn't dare venture yet. But you…you ended it all. You _were_ a hero; an ill-fitted title that hung loosely around your frame and made you look sick instead of strong. What were your thoughts, Norman? Did you like your title? Were you happy now, even if you didn't quite look it? You must have felt contented, at least. You did what you had been supposed to, what you had been risking your life and sanity for, and I…

I almost wanted to tell you how _I_ felt about it all; wanted to tell you about my reaction when I learned about the identity of the killer. Perhaps, in another context, in a better state of mind, I would have even invited you to a bar, spent some drunken time with you like pseudo-friends, and told you about the days when Scott and I used to be partners. I almost wanted to open my mouth right then and tell you I had such a great time back then with Scott, we were such great partners that you could only dream of, I bet you never had such a partner in your whole life, but I didn't give a fuck now that he was dead, and that I was relieved that you were not. I almost wanted to tell you that you had been the shittiest partner I'd ever had, never liked your ways, never appreciated your meddling in my affairs and questioning my methods, but I was impressed nonetheless at how gracefully you handled the case. I almost wanted to congratulate you for that, maybe even give you a pat on the back, because you were sourly underappreciated, you had almost died and everyone seemed to have forgotten about that fact already. Maybe I even felt like yelling at you for not having asked for a backup, for not having told me that you had found the killer, it could have been simply you falling into the grinder, and it is true that one time fuck did not mean anything, but you had been an idiot, and we were partners. But I stubbornly keep my mouth shut and let the silence devour all the raw, unwelcome feelings the thought of you stirred in me. And it wouldn't have changed a thing, anyway. You were too far gone, and I was too stubborn to reach for you. It all came back to square one; all the steps we took forward were reset. It was just one fuck, but it wasn't even about that, was it? At times I just wanted to let go, fuck it you weren't even worth the headache, but for some goddamn reason you kept holding on, looking for something that had never been there, and I pulled at the rope in our childish game of tug of war, because everything with you was a fucking challenge, and I refused to be defeated.)

* * *

><p><em>These thoughts are driving me crazy; these infectious thoughts and the absence of you; my haunted hours and this unresolved guilt. There is a rotten stink of stillness in here, as if I'm sitting on a pile of a thousand corpses, rotten flesh, gallons of congealed, infected blood, and I'm getting sick of it all.<em>

* * *

><p>Do I regret ever letting you go? Yes. But do I want you back?<p>

It's true that I miss the sight of you; miss that smile-less mouth, those colorless eyes, that tasteless skin, for whatever goddamn reason there is. It's true that on some goddamn rainy nights, I wake up disoriented, thinking you're in bed with me, straining my ears to hear your pitiful moans that had disturbed my sleep, but the sound of the rain against the windows are the only thing I hear and then I remember you haven't been here for months, almost a year now, and I crave you with a tragic kind of hunger that lingers at the back of my throat, almost repulsive in its raw intensity, never truly satisfied. But apart from that, things have not changed that much. Your absence is less felt when I am immersed in a case or completely drunk out of my mind. It's only when I'm alone sober, or fucking other people that I think of you; but I am working on that, and in a few months time, things are going back to normal. I'm going to forget that you ever mattered to me, and I won't even bat an eyelash when I read about your overdose in some fucking newspaper. You can go to hell, and this time I won't try to stop you. You can die in a shithole, drugged up to your fucking eyeballs, and I'll be down in a fancy bar, drinking fine champagne and feeling up a hottie. And you will not matter one-third of a fuck to me then, and I will move on.

* * *

><p><em>You make an effort to swallow your pain, you say it burns your throat as it dribbles down your windpipe, but once it's down there, it'll be easier to deal with. I have a hard time believing you, but you don't bother convincing me, so I let it go. Arguing with you loses its appeal when you're not in the mood to argue back.<em>

_But it's the blood you drink, to relieve the pain; a kind of painkiller that kills **you** instead of the pain; or is that you have become the pain over the years? It's hard to tell you two apart, almost impossible._

* * *

><p>But until then, I will keep thinking of you and imagining you do all the impossible things, like smiling for one and being genuinely happy. I will frequently watch the TV to see if there is any news yet about a legendry FBI agent no longer in existence, and grumble under my breath when I don't hear anything. It's not that I yearn to hear about your death; It's just that this constantly thinking about you, this bitter taste of always being reminded of your absence, is pulling me apart, and I need a closure, your permanent absence perhaps, a kind of forgetfulness that your death will inevitably bring, in order to settle down and give my mind a rest.<p>

Sometimes I see you on TV when I go to the bar; that's the closest I can get to meeting you these days. Your eyes are bloodshot, and I don't know if you had been drinking or bleeding or both. Your body language reads that you want to be anywhere but there; you look awkward and restless in the spotlight. Your answers are curt and almost rude, and in my head, I am trying to put you in your place with some well-placed scathing remarks. Suddenly, I blurt out, 'Hey, I know this guy. He used to be a royal pain in the ass back when we still worked together, and one of these days he's gonna get himself killed, but I won't be invited to his funeral because he doesn't give a shit, but I'll go anyway just to piss him off.' I'll regret these words later in the morning, but for now it's ok. I am drunk and you look so fucking miserable you remind me of that one night you almost killed yourself and we almost fucked; but we didn't, because you were coming apart at the edges I was trying to patch you up the best I could, and I was so busy worrying about you I was thinking about you in a different way, looking at your bloody mouth I felt like I cared, the way that you bled, so freely I thought you were going to bleed out all over the car seat until you were a pile of bones floating in thick blood. And all the way to the hospital, with the strong stink of your blood in the air, I didn't even think about fucking you, for I was scared; scared for you.

And then it occurred to me that you meant to me more than a sloppy blowjob and a quick fuck; more than rumpled clothes and half-hearted insults in the morning; beyond your humiliation and my utter satisfaction. And I thought about what it really was I felt for you, and then I remembered your words.

_"What else could it be, Blake, if not love?"_

And then I was scared.

But I am fucking tired of always being scared, and I am trying to let you go; I never truly understood you; I never understood your motivations behind your seemingly selfless sacrifices. What pushed you to do the unthinkable when you went after the Origami Killer alone? What makes you use ARI time and time again, even though you know it's going to cost you your sanity and life? Do you even think twice before plunging headfirst into the clutch of death? Does the thought of death comfort you in your lowest hour? Do you even feel anything when you pursue death, or is it exactly why you do it, to feel _something_?

Once you tried to explain, to make me understand. You said you used ARI to save lives but forgot to mention that it takes your sanity away. You said you used Triptocaine to save your sanity but forgot to mention that it takes your life away. You are caught in the moment of constant choosing between your sanity and your life, but you soon realize that insane people often take their lives and dead people unexceptionally lack sanity. You realize that the war between ARI and your Tripto is a lose/lose war, but you choose not to acknowledge it for all the good it does. You are a broken man and justifiably so. I don't know if I'm going to forget you, I don't know if I'm going to always remember you, but at the very least I know that I'm never going to blame you; never going to accuse you of taking poor care of yourself, of making a mistake greater than your whole lifetime. There has been a price for being a hero, a decision that most of us will not dare consider, and you have paid it willingly, knowingly, with your own sanity, with your own life. And I respect you for that, and even if I hate you for that, you will always be my little Norman, and I'll remember you...

* * *

><p><strong>Many men before you had failed in their success, but you have managed to succeed in your failure.<strong>

* * *

><p><em>And I almost wanted to say it, when you were not listening. And I almost wanted to show you when you were not looking. And I almost want to feel you now, but you're not here.<em>

* * *

><p><strong>Epilogue<strong>

* * *

><p>"The room feels too small, smaller than I remember it to be; I think the walls keep closing in when I'm not looking at them. I am not even wearing ARI, but the reality has become something relative to me. The clear surface of the windowpane suddenly gets wet and I ask the Barman if it's raining. He says it hasn't rained for months now. I say if we were in Philadelphia, it would be raining. He gives me an odd look, 'But you don't like rain, sir.' I don't. I think I just miss him."<p>

The End.

**Le pont Mirabeau**

Under the Mirabeau Bridge there flows the Seine  
>Must I recall<br>Our loves recall how then  
>After each sorrow joy came back again<p>

Let night come on bells end the day  
>The days go by me still I stay<p>

Hands joined and face to face let's stay just so  
>While underneath<br>The bridge of our arms shall go  
>Weary of endless looks the river's flow<p>

Let night come on bells end the day  
>The days go by me still I stay<p>

All love goes by as water to the sea  
>All love goes by<br>How slow life seems to me  
>How violent the hope of love can be<p>

Let night come on bells end the day  
>The days go by me still I stay<p>

The days the weeks pass by beyond our ken  
>Neither time past<br>Nor love comes back again  
>Under the Mirabeau Bridge there flows the Seine<p>

Let night come on bells end the day  
>The days go by me still I stay *<p>

* * *

><p>* The poem is, of course, by <em>Apollinaire<em>, and the translation is done by _Richard Wilbur_, which I found the most pleasing out of the three versions I have read.


End file.
